ON THE GREEN LINE, WASHINGTON METRO, FRIDAY EVENING

At one end of the car:

he rests his arm

on the other man’s shoulders,

fingers brushing arm as they both read.

One points to a page in his book.

Both smile and laugh.

Seat in front of me:

she leans back into his lap,

teasing him, not letting him see

what is on her phone.

But then she does.

Both smile and laugh.

After Sterling (version 7)

Almost there.  Here's version 7.  Not too different from version 6.  I got rid of most of the prepositions and worked on choice of words and rhythm a bit. I plan to share this poem in January with my writers group.  So, expect more changes.  This one, though, is pretty close to final (I think).

AFTER STERLING

(with acknowledgment to Sterling Brown’s After Winter)

Somewhere in these North Laurel woods,
I imagine there are butter beans,
radishes and lettuce, eggplants and beets
to remind us of you, Sterling Brown,
and the words that you found
in the fields and the streets
giving dignity and voice to hardworking folks.

Grass grows where plows once cut.
Buildings rise from the fields where you ran.
The rural place you knew is gone.
Harmony Lane (or what remains)
no longer leads to the Freedman’s town,
its small frame houses lost
to rising values of land.
The colored school, torn down
to make way for more homes.
History lives in this county
to the north and the west.
Down here, our memories 
have been bulldozed and paved,
the past left only in the names of roads,
including the one they named after you.

There’s still much you would recognize:
People making their way
through life’s weariness and joy,
the defeats that grind some down,
determination and will that push some to rise.
Race and class still divide
(though in more subtle form),
push some to the margins,
and keep us all from being whole.

It’s all here, Sterling, same as your day.
But, where is our poet
bringing words from the fields?
Who will sing the stories
that get down deep in our souls?

Ah, Sterling, we are the poets.
We sing the calls that demand a response.
But isn’t that what you already knew?
That a poet is more than a name on the road
that leads to where the butter beans grew.

After Sterling (version 6)

This poem continues to evolve.  Version number 5 was too wordy, too detailed.  I completed draft number 6 on the morning of Sunday, December 21 and read it at the Spiral Staircase Poetry Reading and Open Mic.  The comments I received led to further revisions and version 7.  Version number 6 is below.  Version 7 will follow in a separate post.

AFTER STERLING 

(with acknowledgment to Sterling Brown’s After Winter)

Somewhere in these North Laurel woods,

I imagine there are butter beans,

radishes and lettuce, eggplants and beets
appearing after each winter

to remind us of you, Sterling Brown,

and the words that you found

in the fields and the streets

giving dignity and voice to hardworking folks.

Grass grows where plows once cut.

Buildings rise from the fields where you ran.

The rural place you knew is gone.

Harmony Lane (or what remains)

no longer leads to the Freedman’s town,

its small frame houses lost

to the rising value of land.

The old colored school, demolished

to make way for luxury townhomes.

In this county, history lives

to the north and the west.

Down here, memories 
have been bulldozed and paved,

signs of the past left only in the names of roads,

including the one they named after you.

There’s still much that you’d recognize:

People making their way

through the weariness and joys
of day-to-day life,

the defeats that grind some of them down,

determination and will that push some to rise.

And the old divides of race and class,
though in more subtle forms,

that still push some to the margins,

and keep us all from being whole.

It’s all here, Sterling, same as your day.

But, where is our poet

bringing baskets of words 
in from the fields?

Who will sing the stories

that get hold of us 
way down deep in our souls?

Ah, Sterling, each of us is the poet.

We sing the calls that demand a response.

But isn’t that what you already knew?

That a poet is more than a name on the road

that leads to where the butter beans grew.

 

After Sterling, take 5

I am still struggling with finding the right words and flow for my poem, After Sterling.  The poem is part conversation with the late African-American poet, Sterling Brown, and part commentary on the lost history of the community in which I live-- North Laurel, MD-- which is also where Sterling Brown's family farm was located.  Sterling Brown was part of the Harlem Renaissance, but, unlike Langston Hughes and others, is not remembered or studied in schools.  And, although the Rouse Corporation named a local road after him (Sterling Drive) when developing lands that might have included part of the Brown family's farm, and certainly were near the farm, I think I'm safe in saying that most residents of this area have never heard of him.  My interest in writing this poem began with my own discovery of his poetry, and especially his poem, After Winter, which was inspired by his boyhood memories of the farm.  My poem, also reflects my interest in local history, my love for this community, and my own frustrations with the planning process in Howard County which seems to care more about preserving the areas from which County leaders come and has basically given over this part of the county to development.

So, without further lead-in and ado...

AFTER STERLING

Somewhere in these North Laurel woods

I imagine there are butter beans,

radishes and lettuce, eggplants and beets

appearing year after year

to remind us of you, Sterling Brown,

and the words that you found

in the fields and the streets

giving voice to the lives of ordinary folks.

The rural place you knew is gone.

Grass grows where plows once cut.

Office buildings rise 

from the fields where you ran.

Harmony Lane (or what remains)

no longer leads to the Freedman’s town,

its small frame houses

lost to rising values of land.

The old colored school,

demolished to make way

for luxury townhomes.

All Saints Church, gone,

nothing left on its former site,

not even the graves of those

who worshiped within its walls.

It’s all neighborhoods now

filled with folks of all collars,

all colors living side-by-side

(though the old divides of race and class

still exist for you to comment on).

History lives in this county to the north and the west.

Memories here were bulldozed and paved

in the name of progress and smart growth.

We are left with only names on roads—

Whiskey Bottom, All Saints,

Stephens, Earl Levy,

and the one developers named after you—

but, no one remembers; no one knows.

Poetry lives elsewhere too.

The kids learn Langston,

but they don’t know you,

don’t know a poet once walked these woods.

Did you carve your name into trees,

like those today who carve and tag

to be remembered? Isn’t that all

any of us want?  To be remembered?

Here in these woods, I ask:

Where is the poet

bringing baskets of words

in from the fields?

Who will sing the stories and names

of those from our past

and those here today?

Ah, Sterling, we are the poets.

We bring the words that carry our lives.

But, you knew that, didn’t you?

That the poet is more

than the name on the road

that leads to where the butter beans grew.